


An Accomplished Lady

by Sobriquett



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Coming of Age, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Post-Canon, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sobriquett/pseuds/Sobriquett
Summary: Madame asks Adèle to read the manuscript of her autobiography.
Relationships: Jane Eyre & Adèle Varens
Comments: 30
Kudos: 64
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	An Accomplished Lady

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Toft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/gifts).



Madame was writing an autobiography.

She came to me one morning as I sat at the pianoforte, untangling a particularly challenging passage of my latest piece; the sheet music had been a gift from my music master when I left school a month ago. When Madame shut the music room door behind her – it was habitually left open so the music filled the house – I ceased playing and rose to my feet.

“I only have a moment before I sit down with Mrs Bevan to plan the menus,” said Madame. “Am I interrupting?”

The household had expanded considerably since my first arrival at Ferndean approximately eight years ago, when I had been recently removed from the Northcott Seminary for Girls by the new Mrs Rochester. A few years ago, George and Mary retired to live with their daughter, a last link to Thornfield broken. Now all the staff were new and unfamiliar to me. Many of them had been part of the household for at least a few years, but I was not close to them like I had been Mrs Fairfax or dear Sophie. And Mr Rochester and Madame had three children tucked away in the nursery.

I had been away, and it was difficult now to feel fully part of the family, even if Madame was the best, closest thing to family in my life.

“What can I do for you, _belle-maman_?”

I only called her such when we were alone; it wasn’t a perfect label for our relationship but I offered it with a full heart and open affection, as Madame deserved.

Madame crossed the room, her fine gown of forest green satin swishing at her ankles. She had slowly abandoned her puritanical instincts in fashion and dress as a married woman, but she was never showy or gaudy. This dress was a fine, well-cut gown in a beautiful fabric, not unfashionable, but it was simply adorned with only some lace around the high neck and sensible and camouflaged buttons. She wore no jewellery but her wedding ring and a small pearl brooch, a gift from Mr Rochester on the birth of their latest child. Her attire suited her wholly.

Madame was still _trop petite_ , even after three children and nearly a decade of marriage. Marriage and motherhood had not made her stout like many other women. She had fine, small hands, meticulously maintained with a highly effective lotion of her own still-room that was also her only perfume. She never failed to send me to school without some and I would breathe it in every evening to remind myself of home.

I stood and reached out to take the book she held out to me, an inch-thick hand-sewn manuscript of many handwritten sheets. It was very heavy for its size and curiously the front page was entirely blank. I clutched it to myself with two hands to support its weight, feeling like a child again taking instructions from my dear but strict governess.

“This is my autobiography,” Madame said, and only eight years of being drilled in English manners prevented my mouth from falling open in surprise. “The first part. I expect there will be three. I would like you to read it.”

I was lost for words. I examined the book again. I ran my fingers over the rough cover.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Long experience taught me it was usually the best path when required to speak but not knowing what to say.

We stood opposite one another for a long moment, both apparently looking for the next conversational foothold before Madame simply said, “Thank you, Adéle.” She crossed to the door and turned back to look at me again, still standing adrift on the carpet clutching my new burden. “And promise me you won’t discuss it with anyone else. It’s not secret but it is private. If you have any questions, please come directly to me.”

I promised, and she was obliged then to return to her business and left me and the tome in the music room.

I abandoned my practice for the morning and took the manuscript up to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me with a decisive click. I put the book down on my dressing table and just looked at it. I could not begin to imagine what could fill so many of those tidily bound pages.

I was not sure that many would want to read the story of an English governess, especially one who so rarely left the grounds of her home and had had no adventures, but Madame was clever. Perhaps she might make something of her story. I could not decline her request that I read it – the thought never crossed my mind. She asked me so earnestly, and effectively swore me to secret.

To my mind, if nothing else, it would be something new to break up the long days at Ferndean. It also crossed my mind that perhaps one day I might attempt my own memoirs, when I had had some adventures. I wondered who I might ask to read them – a lover, a friend?

Perhaps this is what I am attempting here, trying to make sense of things. I make no claims to have Madame’s mastery of the English language, but I shall make my best attempt.

* * *

I retired early to read in my room.

I was now always allowed to sit up with Madame and Mr Rochester in the evenings; in the past I had only intermittently received permission during my holidays at Ferndean. Sometimes I played the pianoforte, or Madame or I might read aloud some poetry or from a novel. Mr Rochester’s sight was not fine enough for cards or many parlour games. He habitually sat in the best seat by the fire, a great red wingback armchair that rose around him like a throne and gave him the air of a hulking _bête_ as he was entertained by his women. He would be needling, chiding and teasing when in a playful mood, sullen and silent when suffering from _la mélancolie._

Although the drawing room was warm, comfortably arranged and full of laughter, I often felt as though I was intruding. My most comfortable evenings were those when I crossed the hall to the music room to play, and I imagined husband and wife sitting by the fire with interwoven hands and heads together, as I had occasionally found them sitting when I burst in as a child. For me to play while they sat whispering and listening felt natural in a way that sharing the drawing room with husband and wife was not.

Tonight, Madame was reading poetry from a new volume sent by her cousin Mary, Mrs Wharton.

Mr Rochester had huffed but not protested when I excused myself half an hour after dinner. “You are not unwell?” he asked in his usual gruff manner.

“No, _monsieur_ , I am perfectly well. _Bonne nuit_!”

Mr Rochester only nodded and turned back to the fire.

“ _Bonne nuit_ , Adéle,” said Madame.

Up in my room, I began to read.

* * *

I had been home from school for four weeks by then. I had been enrolled at that institution for eight years, from ten to eighteen, and I was surprised to see that parallel with Madame’s education. Of course, I was not so bright, as I never rose to be a teacher in any formal sense. My school had many other merits.

I remember when I first saw the name written in neat cursive in a letter on Madame’s desk: Laughton School for Young Ladies. The laugh in the name was infectious. It prompted me to beam and twirl until my skirts fanned out; such a happily named place must be the diametric opposite of my erstwhile prison. This letter, and Madame, promised much more than the catechism and impecunious fare of the Northcott Seminary for Girls, of which I had been an inmate for too many intolerable, freezing, miserable months.

Laughton was a small school of only two dozen girls, where they taught all the usual things, but my joys were languages, history, and - above all else, in my mind - music.

I was slightly chastened when Madame pronounced it as Law-ton, not the cheerier laugh-ton - English is an odd language, and its place names stranger still - but I expected warmth and comfort and looked forward to my residence there with some anticipation, especially as Ferndean was still so inhospitable at that time.

I was promised a fire, sufficient food, a letter every week and holidays at home with Madame and Mr Rochester. The school was only twenty miles away, an easy enough journey to be taken a few times per year if not more often, and for Madame to visit me in return from time to time. My chief joy came when she promised that she would subscribe for me to have additional lessons on the piano and harp in the superintendent’s office; it was to be for my benefit and the family’s. For eight years, Madame kept all her promises, and I worked hard to deserve them, even though I lacked the temperament or natural abilities for much of my schooling.

At Laughton, I was happy.

As I read the manuscript, I felt great sorrow for the young Miss Eyre. The humiliations and privations of Lowood reminded me horribly of Northcott. We too had been starved, frozen, berated, chastised and lectured. When we wept, we were punished harder. When I arrived, I was told they had received instructions that they needed to curb my vanity, and my curls were sheared off and the remains covered with a starched cap. I could feel each blow to the Lowood girls’ spirit as though it were a blow to my own.

Each night, when I went to bed after reading another chapter, I replayed the day Madame came to visit me and took me away with her in my head. I remembered how I felt dizzy with joy rather than hunger, how I clung to her and she kissed my hair, how I babbled to her in half-English, half-French, delirious with relief. It was then and still is the happiest day of my life.

* * *

I wept when Helen Burns died.

I had made friends myself, but none with the intensity of Madame’s friendship with Helen Burns. I supposed that was because I had connections outside the school, as did most of the other girls. We all had families to return to, who wrote to us often and sent gifts for our birthdays.

Of course, this had left me a little adrift when I left Laughton for the final time. I exchanged letters with some of my erstwhile classmates in my first months at Ferndean, but there was little to report about life at the remote house that seemed interesting, and their descriptions of life continuing without me at Laughton filled me with a sense of my own insignificance that I did not enjoy.

None of my friends had marked me as Helen did Jane, and I understood now why Jane had named her first daughter Helen Alice.

I could also see where some of Madame’s childish philosophy had given way to Helen’s pragmatism, and I could see that philosophy in how Madame had raised me. Some of little Jane Eyre was hard to reconcile with the grown-up Mrs Rochester. Madame did not often show the passionate side of her nature she alleged in writing – certainly not to me.

The loneliness of Jane Eyre seemed to rise from the page and envelop me. As I experienced what felt like the same day over and over again, it was hard to find any joy in this domestic life.

* * *

The next day, I was deep in thought, circling the garden, when Mr Rochester called out to me. I was summoned. I came and took his arm, although I was mercifully excused from describing our surroundings as Madame would have done. He had tried to encourage it when I was home in the summer four or five years ago but he quickly declared me inadequate and a far inferior walking partner to Madame. I was not offended. Quite the reverse: I was relieved. It was tedious to describe each tree or bird or cloud to Mr Rochester as we made our slow progress across the grounds. I would much rather have had a conversation – any conversation – than give such a dull monologue, especially when in full knowledge that it was not being gratefully received.

His sight had recovered enough to navigate the house and gardens, to identify its other inmates from a distance and to make requests of them for support or entertainment if Madame was unavailable, but Madame was still his right hand. They sat together in his study as he dictated letters to do with business, or they walked in the gardens as she described the wildlife with a poet’s eye. I think perhaps that was how she developed such proficiency for imagery and description in her manuscript. She had been painting verbal landscapes daily for nearly a decade; it was a small enough leap to do so on the page. On the other hand, I had been inadequate then, and – forgive me, reader – am still inadequate now. Birds and trees hold little interest for me.

We had circled the lawn once in stately silence before exiting through a gate to the surrounding flat, green, wide open farmland. Animals were grazing in the field to the left and so I guided us to the right. When we were a quarter of a mile from the house, Mr Rochester spoke.

“How long do you intend to remain and trespass on Madame’s kindness, child?”

I kept walking; my heart may have skipped a beat but my feet did not. This was not a question to which I had an answer. I stalled. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr Rochester.”

He huffed. “What do you want to _do_ with your life? You can’t live here forever.”

There was more bark than bite to his speech now, worlds away from the old Mr Rochester, who could flay me to the bone with one remark. Madame had softened him, tamed him with her teasing. Or perhaps I had thicker skin; it is hard to know.

“I don’t know, Mr Rochester.” Another English tactic: the truth, but politely spoken. “I do not appear to have many options. I suppose I shall stay here with you and Madame, for now, if you’ll have me.”

Mr Rochester _humph_ ed loudly. He really was becoming an old man; there were streaks of silver in his hair and leathery wrinkles even on the unblemished side of his face. “Madame finds you a good companion, and you play tolerably well. We’re not likely to throw you to the tender mercies of the parish or the poorhouse.”

“I am glad, sir.”

“I’m sure you are, but it is only for Madame. She would never forgive me otherwise.”

I smiled, away at the treeline so he could not see it. He may never have said it, but I believed he loved me and cared for me and this was his best way of showing it.

We walked on in silence for some minutes. I guided him over a stile into the next field before he spoke again.

”But no eighteen-year-old girl will be – should be! – content to stay here with an old man and his little wife.”

“No, sir,” I said, too quickly.

He barked at that; I assumed it was a laugh. We stopped now at the crest of a gently sloping hill. There was a great tree stump overlooking the fields in all directions, Ferndean to the west, and we sat side by side there.

“All young people wish to travel,” he said. “And I suppose young women in particular wish to marry. And the unfortunates who cannot hope for either of those must wish for a good situation. What do you wish for?”

I thought for a moment, picking at a loose thread on my gloves. I looked away from the house; the setting sun on the horizon behind was blinding.

“Adventure, sir.” He said nothing so I continued. “I don’t know what that looks like. I should like to travel, I think – to London first, as I have not been since we stayed in that enormous hotel – then Paris and wherever else I can go. But how can I do that? You and Madame do not wish to leave and there is no-one else to take me.”

“I do wish to leave, Adéle, and roam Europe with Madame – but there are obstacles, as you know. I spent my youth travelling all over the world – four continents – but in loneliness and despair. Once, it was my dearest wish to traverse those realms again with Madame at my side, but I was punished for my sins and my hubris and now I cannot even see the things I would wish to show her. And Madame would not leave the children, and I would not take them, so here we remain.”

“And so do I, sir.”

“Yes. Unless you marry.”

“That does not seem likely, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because of my birth, sir, and I don’t have any money.” I didn’t ask, _who would want to marry me?_

We still did not look at each other. “There are other qualities that men look for in a wife.”

I said nothing to this; I no longer commented on my appearance or anyone else’s in Mr Rochester’s presence, except perhaps a polite compliment in company. It felt like we were approaching dangerous ground.

“Right,” said Mr Rochester. “Let’s go home; it’s near dark and Madame will be waiting.” Half way back to the stile, he added: “But as for your obstacles… keep making Madame happy and I will see what I can do.”

* * *

The final chapter of Madame’s first volume was in many ways a revelation to me.

I was not interested in the fire or the flirtation or the birds or anything else; in any event, I don’t think I took them in.

My mother was - or at least had been - alive.

I had thought she was dead.

It was so long ago, I racked my brain but I could remember so little. I remembered Sophie, pale-faced and mute, packing our things and taking us to Madame Frédèric. I remember Madame Frédèric telling me my mother was gone, and I remember sobbing into her pale yellow silk gown as she tried to hold me close and push me away and press a handkerchief to my eyes and nose to keep herself clean, all at the same time. 

Had anyone ever told me Maman was dead?

I couldn’t remember.

I have fond memories of my mother, of her styling my hair to match hers, or sitting in her lap and singing, or seeing her smile and applaud when I performed well for her guests. But she had also been hard and harsh sometimes; she pushed for perfection as she taught me to recite poetry, she brushed away my questions about the meanings of the words, and she would dismiss me immediately if she was not disposed to play with me or if I troubled her in any way.

It was a long time since I had missed Maman. Apart from my time at Northcott, when I had sobbed silently into my pillow at night and wished for the warmth and busyness of the Paris of my childhood – anything to get away from that frozen hell – I had not missed her since I met Madame.

It was a surprise to me to find tears in my eyes now as I considered the enormity of such a thing: living ten years not knowing my mother was, or might be, still alive.

I read those pages again, the first time I had reread a substantial passage of Madame’s manuscript. Mr Rochester told Madame that my mother had run away with an Italian count. I weighed it for truth and found it likely, although I did not let myself dwell on how and why she had left me. Separately, I told Madame that Maman was with the Holy Virgin.

So Madame had known that I was mistaken! But nobody told me the truth, then or now! Why was Madame telling me this way, after fifteen chapters of handwritten manuscript? Was it possible my mother was still alive? Was I supposed to go and chase after her? Did Madame want me to find my mother?

I couldn’t read any more that night. I closed the book and stowed it away. Once in bed, sleep eluded me. I clutched the covers up to my chin and waited for morning.

* * *

“I have finished, _belle-maman_.”

It was the next time we were alone together. Mr Rochester was prowling the gardens as he did at this time every morning. Madame and I were in the sitting room. She claimed this half hour after breakfast to arrange the domestic affairs of the house but Mr Rochester found it tedious. He once declared that the best thing about regaining his sight was not having to listen to any more conversations about how best to get the dust off this or keep the damp off that. Madame teased him in return, as he deserved, and he retracted his opinion, but his temper when deprived of Madame’s full attention made him a hindrance to household business.

Madame put down the pen she had been using to check the week’s accounts.

“Thank you, Adéle. What did you think?”

“I thought it would be boring.”

Madame looked sorrowful for a moment, looking out the window about her little rosewood writing desk.

“It wasn’t, _belle-maman_. It is beautifully written.”

“Do you have any questions?” she asked, smiling again. Bathed in sunlight on today’s pale blue gown, she looked radiant, far from her own self-portrait as poor, plain and little.

“Only about my mother… I thought she was dead, but you wrote that Mr Rochester said—”

“I am sorry, Adéle, I never thought! I don’t know – I’ve never heard a word about her other than what Mr Rochester told me, and you have read my best memory of that. Would you like me to ask him, to see if we can find her? I never thought you might want to find your mother; I was very sad not to have met my uncle before he died. We could—”

“No, no!” I cried. “No, _belle-maman_ , I am fine. Please don’t distress yourself. And how could we find her now? She will likely have a different name, she could be living anywhere, and she may not want to acknowledge me as her daughter. Or she is gone, as I had thought. I have lost nothing. I am perfectly satisfied with the mothers in my life.”

There were tears in both our eyes, although I’m sure they were as much embarrassment as mutual affection. We were not prone to outbursts like that.

“Have you finished the second volume?” I asked.

She had, and it was produced for me directly. I thanked her and left her to her work; I had taken up enough time already. Mr Rochester’s patience would soon come to an end and she would be required once more.

* * *

This was the first time since I first left for Laughton that my date of departure was not fixed before my entry into the house.

The days and weeks and months sprawled out ahead in my imagination. I could read as clearly as Madame’s handwriting that they would be filled with breakfast, prayer, music practice, luncheon, rambling walks, tea, further study, dinner, music or reading, and bed, again and again. There would be church on Sundays, perhaps an occasional dinner party among neighbours, the requirements of domestic duties, but no particular relief from the tedium of such isolated life. Madame never seemed to tire of her husband’s company, nor he of hers, but I feared I would tire of this life, this quiet existence, long before I found an escape from it. It was a quiet terror sitting like a stone in my gut, day in and day out.

The piquancy of Madame’s autobiography was what seasoned my days, far more so than the antics and anecdotes of the nursery and domesticity or the minutely observed details of the changing seasons.

I wanted freedom. I wanted passion, love, travel, adventure, society, music, dancing.

I was certain I would not find them at Ferndean.

* * *

If the last chapter of Madame’s first volume had bewildered me, with its revelations about my mother, the first chapter of the next cut me deep.

 _There was something ludicrous and slightly painful in the little Parisienne’s earnest and innate attention to matters of dress,_ wrote Madame.

Although these words were written to describe a child of eight or nine, approximately a decade ago, I was deeply hurt. It brought back memories of all the times I had been dismissed or ridiculed because I clung to the dresses and ribbons and beauties of the world I grew up in.

I took pride in my appearance. I took my time arranging my hair in the morning, found pleasure in taming its natural curl into neat ringlets and tidy braids, and the relief of brushing it out at night was almost otherworldly. I found confidence in a well-cut dress or fine shawl, and anyone who has lived through a rural English winter knows the superlative value of top quality shoes.

I was proud of my appearance then, and I still am now. Even my education reinforced that: we were expected to be neat and clean and presentable at all times. Other girls struggled with that, but I did not. Northcott had seared some of the vanity from me as a child with shorn curls, starched caps and itchy brown stuff dresses, but I was one of the few girls who never received the birch for unclean nails or a dirty face. Laughton did not allow for much individuality but it too took pride in the presentation of its girls.

I have a fine complexion, warm brown eyes with long lashes, dark curly hair, regular features and a good figure. I also have the advantage of youth. Madame may have thought herself plain but I know that I am not. These are gifts from God, like my skills with the pianoforte or Madame’s way with words: why should I not make the most of them?

Madame’s erstwhile puritanism with regards to matters of dress was peculiar. I believed it had stifled her, caged her, in a way that she was not restrained any more in her life as Mrs Rochester. She should have had more faith that she deserved to be loved; it would have saved her a great deal of hurt from Mr Rochester’s later foolishness with Blanche Ingram.

In my hurt, I realised something: Madame was not infallible. Just because she thought or believed something, it did not make it so.

I felt the earth tremble under my feet and the horizons of my world fold out before me as I considered this. It may not be how she meant to go about it, but was this what Madame meant by asking me to read her manuscript: that I should know my own mind, as she did?

* * *

A few weeks later, Madame told me over breakfast that her cousins Mrs Fitzjames and Mrs Wharton were coming to stay with their husbands. 

The few days before Diana and Mary’s arrival were frantic with preparations and I did not have the energy to read when I fell into bed at night.

Although the house had been greatly improved since the widowed Mr Rochester haunted just three rooms, many of the upstairs rooms were neglected as they were not in daily use. The master bedroom, my bedroom and the nursery were clean and dry and well-aired, and one guest bedroom, but not two. Ferndean had probably not welcomed so many overnight guests at one time since Diana and Mary’s last visit three years ago.

My days were spent in the kitchen, helping Mrs Bevan bake and chop and pickle and boil while the housemaids did battle with the guest bedrooms. Mr Rochester was in a fouler mood than ever with Madame so occupied; he would growl about such fuss being unnecessary and that they could all decamp to the nearest town rather than disrupt the house so.

When they finally arrived, the children and I were outside with Madame to receive them.

I was greeted with great warmth and cordiality, the equal of their greeting of Madame. They exclaimed over how grownup I was, how they admired the lace work on my dress, what Madame had told them of my accomplishments and how they were looking forward to hearing me play.

Diana and her husband Captain Fitzjames were a delight to behold. Diana wore an exquisite gown of royal blue silk that brought out her eyes wonderfully, and it suited her colouring to perfection. The captain was tall, proud and extremely handsome in his uniform, and a perfect gentleman. I could have swooned when he kissed my hand; I think he did it on purpose - he had a fine sense of humour.

Mary was more simply dressed, as suited a clergyman’s wife, with a pale green dress that complemented her fair hair and reminded me of a breezy spring day. Mr Wharton was kind and well-mannered, if very quiet, and also less fashionable, but they were a presentable pair.

Diana and Mary had brought me a notebook of pre-ruled music paper and the borrowed sheet music of several new and fashionable pieces for me to practice and transcribe before their departure. They implored me to play for them that evening and I was excused to the music room to prepare while our guests refreshed themselves after their long journey. I had not sat at the instrument for several days and even Mr Rochester paused his prowling and settled in his great wingback chair to listen.

* * *

There was so much more life in the house that summer! Captain Fitzjames managed to charm Mr Rochester into ceding Madame to her cousins so they could gather together in the sitting room while the men exchanged tales of their travels across Europe in the library. After dinner they sometimes continued with their stories, each one-upping the other, their tales growing increasingly tall to the great amusement of their audience. Having met some of the other officers now in London, I can only assume that Captain Fitzjames' success with Mr Rochester was because he was a military man: he had seen worse injuries and there was no pity in his conduct.

Mr Wharton was a quiet and studious man, engaging in solitary study at Madame's rosewood desk as the ladies sat around their books at a small round table brought out for this visit. Sometimes I sat with them and transcribed my new music; I could not understand them as they spoke in what felt like all the languages of Europe. I obviously recognised French and could join in - I taught them an idiom or two that they did not know! - but they also spoke and read German and Italian and Latin and something I thought was Greek.

When I had finished transcribing a piece, humming it to myself as I worked and fingers dancing through the motions against the table top, I would go to the music room and practice _pianissimo_ behind closed doors, ready for my nightly exhibition.

I made myself keep reading at night when I could, but I was often so tired from the day's pleasures that I did not take in as much as I should. I remembered the house party that Madame described; I remembered the beauty and the barbs of the ladies. I had not let the verbal blows land at the time, or perhaps my English had not been sufficient to understand some of their unkind words. Contrary to what many would imagine to be the experience of a Parisienne dancer's illegitimate daughter, I had not had much experience of unkindness before then - or at least not directly enough to recognise it for what it was.

I recalled now with pleasure the great excitement of my toilette with Sophie, and the exhilaration of being admitted to the drawing room with then-Mademoiselle in the evening. It had been a magical time in my childhood. It reminded me of Maman's Paris salons, of beautiful people in beautiful clothes laughing and amusing one another.

I could not help but compare that party and this one.

Here, the inhabitants of Ferndean were serious and studious by day, and brilliant and sparkling by night. I could not sense that brilliance in the house guests at Thornfield, and none of the warm affection. Perhaps that was because this was a family gathering? It made me lament the lack of my own family, until I realised that I had been accepted as a niece in all by name by the ladies.

This was my family.

* * *

A few days into the visit, Madame summoned me to the sitting room before breakfast, and I was invited to sit before Diana and herself.

"Adéle, Mrs Fitzjames has a request to make of you."

I folded my hands in my lap, taking care not to fidget; I had been extremely conscious of it ever since one of the teachers at Laughton had pointed it out when criticising my inattention to my lessons.

"Yes, Madame?"

Diana explained. "One of Captain Fitzjames's dear friends has recently married a young lady from Paris, and she is living in England for the first time. Her name is Mrs Fernsby. It has not been an easy transition for her. My French is rather good - although nothing compared to yours, dear Adéle - but many of the other wives have little more than conversational French, and Mrs Fernsby's English is at a similar level. Captain Fernsby has asked me to do what I can to aid her, and I have asked Madame's permission to offer you a position as Mrs Fernsby's companion."

“What does that entail?” I imagined it had something to do with sitting next to a dull middle-aged lady, sewing and making calls and perhaps some very sanitary philanthropy.

Madame answered. “You would go and live in London with Mrs Fernsby, help her adjust to life in England, accompany her on calls and offer any other small assistance within your power. It is a good situation, and Mrs Fitzjames will be nearby.”

“Mrs Fernsby is not much older than you, Adele,” added Diana, to my immense relief. “She is very friendly, very lively. I think you will get on very well; you will be well-matched in temperament. She is a musician too, and has the finest piano I’ve ever seen in a private home, shipped from Paris.”

I beamed. It had never crossed my mind that this could be an option - living in London! Without having to marry! I looked at Madame and my smile cracked. The corners of her mouth were drooping into a mild frown and something in her brow told me she didn’t want me to go. I felt a pang too then. Madame would not come to London often; she had to be at Ferndean with Mr Rochester and _les enfants_. 

Mrs Fitzjames spared me from breaking Madame’s heart - and perhaps mine - so soon. 

“Think about it, Adele - we have another fortnight. There is no hurry.”  
  


* * *

I soon reached the climax of Madame’s second volume. My heart pounded as Madame declared herself Mr Rochester’s equal - I knew well that she was his superior, but that it was bold and brave to declare such a thing - and I felt such happiness as Mademoiselle did, even knowing how it would end.

When I reached the fateful day of the aborted wedding, I hated Mr Rochester in a way I hadn’t since my first miserable days at Northcott. There were tears in my eyes as I read; I kept blinking them away, trying not to blot Madame’s manuscript.

There was sorrow for Madame, betrayed, her hopes so cruelly dashed. There was sorrow for me, for Mrs Fairfax and Sophie and our impending separation. There was sorrow for the first Mrs Rochester, locked away like an animal and almost wiped from existence!

The hubris and dishonesty of Mr Rochester’s actions! I tried to imagine Madame, on her honeymoon in a beautiful hotel in Paris or Vienna or Rome, discovering too late that her husband was a bigamist and had disgraced her. I could not. The imagined shame and disgust and despair overwhelmed me, even ten years later. It was inconceivable.

But his crimes against me and even Madame paled in comparison to his erasure of Mrs Rochester. I tried to imagine her life - for nearly as long as I had been alive, certainly longer than I had lived in England - sequestered away in a small room in the attics of a house where nobody knew you lived. If she was as mad as he said, he could only have made it worse. With only Mrs Poole as a companion! She had been such a disquieting figure to me as a child. I don’t know that I ever heard her speak except when spoken to.

Surely he could have done something, anything? Instead he abandoned his poor wife and roamed Europe searching for relief - which, I realised, he temporarily found in my mother, but his account of himself there at least suggested the exchange was equal. My memories of my mother were of a woman content with her situation, as far as I understood it.

His betrayal of his wives lit a fire inside me.

I knew I could never unburden these thoughts on Madame, and that Mr Rochester truly loved her and that they were happy together, but this was not a life I wanted to lead.

With a start, I realised I was ready to leave Ferndean.

* * *

As Madame had left safety at Thornfield, I was about to leave the safety of Ferndean. Where she left in despair, I was leaving in hope.

A week after I finished Madame’s second volume, the carriage pulled away taking myself, Diana and the Captain to London. There were tears in my eyes as I leaned out to wave. Once we turned the corner, the other occupants were kind enough to look away as I let them fall.

Madame’s third and final volume was tucked in one of my trunks, wrapped in my favourite dress. Madame had promised faithfully to come and collect it soon.

* * *

My welcome in London was very warm. I stayed with Mrs Fitzjames for one night, then she introduced me to Mrs Fernsby.

Mrs Fernsby lived in a beautiful modern house in a fashionable part of town, with all the grandeur of Thornfield in my youth: high ceilings, enormous windows, a grand staircase, paintings and carpets and curtains, and the most wonderful grand piano from Paris. It was far superior to my little square instrument at Ferndean.

I was welcomed as a friend, not a dependent, and Mrs Fernsby spoke to me in such rapid French that I stumbled for a moment, somewhat out of practice, but after a moment my mind realigned myself and I could join her. We did not stop talking all afternoon: she wanted to know where I had been born, where I had gone to school, how I found myself in England, what I thought of it, what I thought she should learn. In return, she unburdened herself to me and I found myself greatly sympathising with her, and very much liking her. We ate a rich dinner of veal, pigeon and asparagus, and its preparation was far superior to that of Mrs Bevan.

She was a very handsome lady of around twenty-two, with fair hair and blue eyes and lashes to rival mine. She was always impeccably dressed, the very model of taste and fashion as far as I understood it, and she told me of all the latest styles in London and Paris.

When I went to bed that night, with the first chapter of Madame's final volume, it broke my heart. The difference between my reception when I left home and Madame's was unthinkable. I was sure she had sanitised her account, for my sake and perhaps one day Mr Rochester's, but her suffering was palpable. I knew hunger and I knew despair but I wondered if I had ever experienced them to such a degree. I hoped very much I never would.

* * *

By day, my time was spent in endless, rapid half-English half-French conversation with Mrs Fernsby. She asked me to call her Marguerite - the English ladies often butchered the pronunciation and called her Margaret, much time her annoyance - or better yet, to call her Margot.

We made calls, I played as she sang, and she gave me several of her old dresses to alter for myself.

In contrast to my airily pleasurable days, I read more of Madame's life after Thornfield. I read hungrily, waiting to read our reunion to wash away Madame's misery, thinking herself unmoored from all who cared for her and starting all over again.

I wondered whether her writings about Diana and Mary would be coloured by the affection in their recent visit, but I could see now how accurate her illustrations were in that regard. I read their speech in their voices, could see their mannerisms in their conversation.

Through the first volume of Madame's manuscript, I found myself contemplating loneliness and the nature of family. In the second, I would put it away at midnight to dream sweet dreams of love and passion and taking flight towards my destiny. The third volume seemed designed to bring me swiftly back down to earth with tales of Christian virtues and Madame's Christian duty.

At least she chose love and earthly happiness in the end, without sacrificing her prospect of heavenly reward. I cannot say whether Madame has ever doubted that choice - she described St John Rivers as a handsome man and a great one, but I felt no attraction on her part, nor could I imagine I would have any in her position either, good looks or not.

I met him once, many years ago, when he came to say farewell to Madame before leaving for India. He gave me a copy of Fordyce's Sermons and did not speak to me again during his visit. I don't believe he spoke much at all, rudely making Madame do all the work of maintaining social niceties. Looking back, I can almost feel the ice in the room between Madame, Mr Rochester and Mr Rivers, although I was oblivious enough at the time.

I was glad Madame had teased Mr Rochester so thoroughly for it. I was glad she was happy.

* * *

There were so many parallels between myself and Madame. In childhood, we had each suddenly lost our parents and been made dependents of people who did not appreciate our natural temperament and character. We had been sent to school at the same age, suffered at first and then thrived. We both found we had family still living and had not needed to be dependents. We both had to find our places in the world with little realistic hope for true happiness; Madame had found hers. I was beginning to suspect I had found mine, at least for now.

I wondered if these parallels were why she entrusted me with her manuscript. If she had wanted the analysis of an educated, well-read, brilliant lady, she would have appealed to one of her cousins. I can only conclude that she had a different purpose in her request.

If it was to make me grateful, I already was. I resented any suggestion otherwise. The correctness of gratitude by a dependent to their benefactor, or benefactress, had been drilled into me since Northcott, when they frightened us with nightmares of the poorhouse if we weren't quiet enough, meek enough, docile enough, submitting entirely to the expectations and requirements of those to whom we were indebted. But my gratitude was not that which is commanded by expectation. It had been thoroughly earned and was warmly and freely given. Madame's kindness has been constant, as far as possible within her ability, for ten years.

Or perhaps it was meant to improve my character, to fix some deficiency not cured by my education and ten years of Madame's influence? I do not believe so, but I am not so certain of myself as to exclude the possibility entirely.

My preferred conclusion is that Madame meant to give me the courage to face the world, and a guide for how to do so on my own terms, to not compromise myself in a desperate flight for freedom. I daresay she hoped I would face the world with the same uncompromising self-discipline as Jane Eyre. I believe she had faith I would find happiness - in a different form to hers, as we are very different women - and that her manuscript was meant to give me the courage to stride out into the world as she had.

* * *

In the dark bedroom of a fine London townhouse, my happy home now for several months, as my dear Margot sleeps nearby, I still think of Madame's epilogue. Unless it was a deliberate attempt to deflect me from my earlier hypothesis that this story was written for my benefit, I must now conclude that this story was also written for strangers. It broke my heart a little to read how she summed up my childhood for any stranger who may one day desire to read about it:

A sound English education corrected in great measure my French defects, and she found in me a pleasing, docile, good-tempered and well-principled companion.

Although saddened, I am not offended by these words. After thirty-eight chapters, I feel I understand Madame's mind nearly as well as my own, and I do not feel it diminishes me to politely disagree with her opinion on my "French defects". This opinion is a product of her life, her struggles; these "defects" she saw in me were the exuberance of a lively child viewed through the lens of one who suffered at the hands of other women when she had not conformed - at least in her own mind. It pains me to think of it, but I believe she suffered far more at Mr Rochester's hands than at those of Mrs Reed or Bertha Mason or in the shadow of Céline Varens. The defects she believed she saw in me were not necessarily flaws merely they were qualities I shared with the spectres haunting her life; some were not defects at all.

But Madame must come to terms with her choices to the best of her ability, and if this is how she chooses to do so, I owe her my unconditional support, as she has given me.

Perhaps she doubted her husband at times as she wrote and thought about his actions, but her manuscript made a concerted attempt to rehabilitate him in a way I am not sure he deserves.

Regardless, he loves Madame, and she him. I do not begrudge them their eventual happiness. I begrudge nobody any happiness they can find. 

So I am satisfied. Madame thinks well of me, and I of her. I offer this as an epilogue of my own, words on my own experience of happiness.

I am myself. I am free. I am happy. It is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Toft, your prompts were wonderful. There is a rich vein of material to mine in imagining Adéle's later life. I wish I could have done justice to the historical context of Adèle’s Frenchness, but it was getting quite close to the deadline before I realised that Jane Eyre was set ten or twenty years prior to when I had thought. In the absence of sufficient time to research, I preferred to handwave it than to do it an injustice. Still, I hope you enjoyed this story. It was a pleasure to write for you.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta for her cheerleading, in spite of my ridiculousness, and even though I didn't leave her time to proofread!
> 
> And thank you, reader, for indulging Adèle and me.


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